Pathway to Japanese Literature

Insulator

I

When it came to Mr. Ichigi, most of the neighbors knew of him.
Nor was it through neighborly interactions or casual conversations.
Nor was it because Mr. Ichigi was socially prominent.
Even when they passed each other on the street, they never exchanged greetings.
But when Mr. Ichigi’s name was mentioned, knowing smirks and curious glances would naturally arise among the people.
The reason was that while Mr. Ichigi wasn’t quite considered mentally odd, he was at least regarded as an eccentric.
Thus, it would be fair to say that Mr. Ichigi was known only by his name and face, and he was known more among women and children than among adult men.

Far from being socially prominent, no one even knew what Mr. Ichigi did for a living.
And this was only natural—he had no occupation at all.
He often shut himself away at home, but no one knew what he was doing inside.
Visitors hardly ever came.
The house was old-fashioned, its construction likely none too sturdy, and the wooden plank fence was damaged in places.
On the rain-battered gatepost hung a nameplate clumsily inscribed with "Masanobu Ichigi," probably written by the man himself.
This too had darkened from years of weathering.
And so this Masanobu name lodged in no one’s memory; he remained known simply as Mr. Ichigi.

Mr. Ichigi appeared to be nearly sixty years old, yet incongruously had two young children—a son and a daughter.
The boy attended elementary school, and the girl attended a girls' school.
Both wore shabby clothing, with square pieces of cloth haphazardly sewn around the elbows.
It appeared that Mr. Ichigi himself had done the repairs.
It was a family of three, with neither a wife nor a maid.

For purchasing daily necessities and food, Mr. Ichigi went out himself.
Yet his manner gave no impression of someone out on errands, nor did it resemble a leisurely stroll; he simply appeared to drift along.

His forehead had receded slightly, but his salt-and-pepper hair remained thick and long, brushing against his nape, and he always went hatless. He had bold facial features, full cheeks, and no beard. In summer he wore just a shirt; in other seasons, a brown jacket; in winter, he would throw on a black overcoat—always in short pants and clogs. He would only go out on sunny days, and no one ever caught sight of him on rainy days.

And usually, he would carry a large woven bamboo basket, hanging it from his shoulder with a long cord. He would usually put a sketchbook in that basket. And usually, he would carry either a thick staff or a single shakuhachi flute. The bamboo basket was for shopping, and it would often bulge with various items. The sketchbook was rarely used, but it was likely prepared for when he encountered something that piqued his interest. As for the staff, that was acceptable enough, but when it came to the shakuhachi flute, no one could make sense of it. However, the neighbors were often made to hear the clear, resonant tones of the shakuhachi flute late at night, and he probably carried it around out of sheer habit.

In such a manner, Mr. Ichigi drifted along.
Even when encountering neighbors, he neither greeted them nor turned to look.
The neighbors too, out of some subtle sentiment, would feign ignorance as if they didn’t know him.
Mr. Ichigi always faced directly forward, never glancing to the sides or looking back.
He seemed completely indifferent to his surroundings.

On wide streets, there were times when children would gather and make noise.
Even in such places, Mr. Ichigi would pass through smoothly, yet slowly, in a straight line.
The children would grow oddly quiet, watch Mr. Ichigi’s retreating figure, then resume their boisterous play.

Mr. Ichigi had a sturdy build, and there were rumors he was also said to be exceptionally strong.
There were also rumors he was skilled in judo.
The source of these rumors remained unclear, and their veracity was uncertain.
Yet they carried such an air of truth that women and children tended to keep their distance from him.

One autumn after a typhoon, two women saw Mr. Ichigi single-handedly repairing his collapsed wooden plank fence.
A typhoon warning had been issued the previous day; by nightfall the wind and rain intensified into a violent storm around midnight, leaving a clear morning with lingering winds.
Though the typhoon hadn't made direct landfall and damage was minimal, wood fragments and freshly broken branches littered the streets while old plank fences leaned or lay fallen here and there.
Mr. Ichigi's fence—already quite aged—had its gatepost tilting sideways with about two ken of its length collapsed.
He was rebuilding it alone.

Lifting the top of the collapsed fence with both hands, he gradually raised it up, propped it in two places on either side with prepared log poles, raised it further still, and secured it once slightly tilted. Since the fence’s pillars had been repaired once and were still sturdy, he buried their bases into the ground to straighten the fence. Then, nailing long, narrow thick planks horizontally across various spots, he reinforced the fence. The initial act of lifting the fence was both dangerous and required strength. Two women passing by saw Mr. Ichigi doing such a thing all by himself. No matter how one looked at it, Mr. Ichigi was undoubtedly a strong man.

However, Mr. Ichigi was always composed or indifferent and never gave the impression of being a frightening person. If I had to say, he was simply a somewhat eerie person. He never laughed nor got angry.

Nevertheless, I once saw Mr. Ichigi in a state of genuine anger.

It was only I in the neighborhood who conversed and associated with Mr. Ichigi without reservation.
The reason for this stemmed from a peculiar twist of fate.

I lived in the house behind Mr. Ichigi’s.
From the road before his house—where it bent at a right angle—there extended a narrow alley, and at its end stood my home.
It was a small single-story house but had a relatively spacious garden.
The garden was partitioned by a bamboo fence about the height of a wooden plank fence, beyond which rose Mr. Ichigi’s two-story house.
In other words, the back of his house and the side garden of mine lay adjacent.
Mr. Ichigi owned that house; mine was rented.

The bamboo fence between the two properties had completely decayed and become tattered, but then, due to that typhoon, it had been half-destroyed.
Mr. Ichigi had repaired the front wooden plank fence, but the bamboo fence at the back was now beyond repair.
And that bamboo fence belonged to Mr. Ichigi’s house.

Strangely enough, wooden plank fences or bamboo fences between houses were not shared by both parties but seemed to belong exclusively to one side. It was either because that side had built it first or because it lay within the boundary line of one property.

The bamboo fence at the edge of my garden belonged to Mr. Ichigi, so even though it was broken, I couldn’t casually lay hands on it. Mr. Ichigi’s side had left it untouched too. Then about three days later, Mr. Ichigi went and completely tore down that bamboo fence. I thought he would finally rebuild it now, but that wasn’t what happened.

After removing the bamboo fence, Mr. Ichigi entered my garden.

“I’ll just take a look at your fence.”

After stating this, Mr. Ichigi circled around my house and inspected various places.

“Your fence isn’t broken anywhere.”
“This should be fine.”

He tossed out those words and left.

I was dumbfounded.
Even though Mr. Ichigi wasn’t my landlord, him going around inspecting my wooden plank fences and corrugated metal fences amounted to pure meddling.
If there were broken sections, what exactly did he plan to do about them?
Was he intending to repair them like he’d done with that front fence?

But that didn’t appear likely.
This became clear when the bamboo fence remained dismantled after its removal.
I wondered if he meant to have a gardener or some craftsman build a new one—delays piling up due to their schedules—but no such thing happened.
Days passed without any fence being erected.

As a result, I was left in a difficult situation.
Mr. Ichigi’s house and mine had become completely exposed to each other.
On Mr. Ichigi’s side, what faced me was his back entrance with its gate always tightly shut; on the other side lay a narrow garden flanked by cypress and fatsia shrubs, so that peering over from my side didn’t seem to pose any issue.
However, on my side, his property faced the front of the garden where the veranda stood—if I opened the shoji screens wide, even the tatami rooms would be fully visible from his side.
Moreover, this was a single-story house while his had two floors.
I must do something about this, I thought.

As I was thinking, something suddenly occurred to me. Perhaps things like wooden fences and bamboo fences should be built by whoever finds their absence inconvenient. This must apply not just to properties facing public roads but also to those between houses. And maybe when Mr. Ichigi inspected my fences, it had been his cryptic way of hinting that I should rebuild that bamboo barrier. Talking directly to Mr. Ichigi would be the quickest solution.

Choosing an opportune moment, I passed through the fatsia bushes into Mr. Ichigi’s garden and called out to him from the veranda there.
There was a response from inside. After waiting briefly, Mr. Ichigi emerged.
He slid open the glass door and set out a zabuton cushion there, so I took a seat.
Sunlight fell across the veranda.

Now then, I felt somewhat at a loss about how to broach the topic.
I had heard that Mr. Ichigi was an eccentric, and between his large facial features with a slightly receding hairline and the long hair hanging down to his shoulders, I somehow felt intimidated.
It seemed best to state things plainly.

“Actually, about that bamboo fence that was between our houses…”

“Ah, that? Once removed, it’s much cleaner now.”
“It was all decayed and tattered—must have been an eyesore for you.”

“No, it wasn’t particularly an eyesore, but now that it’s gone, it feels rather strange… If it’s acceptable to you, I was thinking of building a new one on my side. What do you think?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”
“My fence is solidly built, and yours is solidly built too—there’s no need to worry.”

“That may be so, but from my side, your side is completely exposed…”

“Completely visible—that won’t do.”

“So...”
“In other words, if looking causes problems, you need only refrain from looking.”

“Even if you tell me not to look, if I turn my eyes that way, it’s completely exposed, won’t it?”
“Therefore, you just shouldn’t turn your eyes that way.”

Somehow I ended up feeling like I was being lectured.
Given how things were going, it became difficult to point out that from his side, mine was even more exposed.
Moreover, was Mr. Ichigi truly lumping my house and his together, thinking that as long as both outer fences were sturdy, that would suffice?
There was no other way but to press that point.

"Whether it's visible or not is ultimately fine, but having no boundary at all between your house and mine—doesn't that seem rather odd?"

“I see. Your house is your house, my house is my house—I quite agree with that.”

It was only then that we reached an agreement, and Mr. Ichigi himself proposed building a bamboo fence.

Once decided, Mr. Ichigi did not dawdle.
Promptly, he procured materials from somewhere and built the bamboo fence himself.
However, unlike the previous bamboo fence, this time it was a low four-eyed fence.
He had driven wooden stakes in various places and tied round bamboo poles to them with palm rope, resulting in a four-eyed fence with an exceptionally coarse pattern that stood barely two shaku high.
It merely demarcated both properties without altering visibility from either side, and I could easily step over it.
Even so, Mr. Ichigi looked satisfied.

“It’s done.”
“When you’re bored, feel free to step over here and visit.”

He looked my way and smiled with his eyes.

Mr. Ichigi must have felt satisfied at having completed his task.
Yet in those eyes I sensed something like goodwill toward me.
Though Mr. Ichigi likely never knew about my occupation—writing children's stories and doing translations to scrape by—I later understood he seemed to hold this vague fondness for my character simply because I wasn't some bureaucrat or company man.

One day, I came across Mr. Ichigi while he was sketching.
Along the path that cut through the shrine grounds, there stood a large dead tree, its trunk—from which the upper branches had been cut away—bearing thick knots that swelled here and there.
Mr. Ichigi was sketching that tree trunk into his usual sketchbook with a pencil.

I went there and peered at it from the side.
Mr. Ichigi did not turn around and continued to draw intently.
Even to my eyes, it hardly seemed a skillful drawing.
Before long, Mr. Ichigi tilted his head slightly, then turned toward me.

“That trunk—I never tire of drawing it.”

Then he flipped through the sketchbook and showed it to me.
The tree trunks with swelling knots had been sketched numerous times.
After merely flipping through it to show me, he did not ask for my opinion and immediately shoved it into the bamboo basket.

Naturally, the two of them started walking side by side.
I was on my way home, and it seemed Mr. Ichigi was as well.

“Do you paint in oils or watercolors as well—those kinds of paintings?”

“No, I don’t draw those things.
“Nor do I draw ink paintings.”

According to Mr. Ichigi, using elements like color and shading meant making nature the painter’s own.
No matter how much one tried to handle nature itself, through color and shading it would inevitably become the painter’s own.
That’s why Mr. Ichigi only drew with a pencil.
Through pencil drawing, nature could be expressed most purely as itself.
Mr. Ichigi did not try to make nature his own; he simply enjoyed it as nature itself.

Mr. Ichigi’s views were something I couldn’t accept; they also struck me as a kind of sour grapes. But there was one thing that caught my attention. Mr. Ichigi said.

“I wish to make even myself one with nature itself, but I can’t quite reach that state.”

Strolling along, we came to the front of Mr. Ichigi’s house.
Mr. Ichigi glanced in my direction.

“Please wait a moment.
I’ll open it right now.”

It was as though my stopping by had already been settled.
I hesitated.
Mr. Ichigi took out a key and opened the lock on the lattice door.

“Please come in.”

Thinking he might have some business with me, I followed him inside and was invited to sit on the veranda.
There, I sat down and was treated to tea and bean-jam cakes.
Mr. Ichigi boasted about this gyokuro tea that had been sent from Uji, but to me, it was merely cloyingly bitter, and I couldn’t discern its supposed excellence.

Since there didn’t seem to be any particular business, I made to take my leave at an appropriate time.

“Ah, this way, this way.”
“Please come this way.”

Stopping me as I tried to head toward the front gate, Mr. Ichigi pointed toward the back.
I smiled wryly, gave a polite bow, and stepped over the low four-eyed fence at the back to return home.

That was the first time, and from then on, I began crossing the bamboo fence to visit Mr. Ichigi.
When I grew weary of work, I would stroll out, spend time chatting idly on the veranda, and return home in about the time it took to smoke a cigarette.
From Mr. Ichigi’s side as well, there were times when he would cross over the fence and come to visit.
My house’s garden was relatively spacious—though not exactly large—and Mr. Ichigi’s house’s garden was rather cramped. Yet occasionally, when crossing over the fence to visit each other, a sense of novelty would arise, making the low fence seem all the more convenient.

Even so, these comings and goings amounted to no more than once or twice a month.
From Mr. Ichigi’s side, even when entering my garden, he would not call out to me, instead wandering about the area before leaving.
When either I or my wife noticed him and invited him in, he would sometimes sit on the veranda but would drink just a cup of tea and promptly stand up.

On my side, whenever I crossed the fence, I would usually call out to Mr. Ichigi.
When Mr. Ichigi was downstairs, he would always come out; but when he was upstairs, he would open the glass door on the second floor, show his face, say “I don’t wish to see anyone right now—excuse me,” and immediately retreat.
I smiled wryly, wandered around there for a bit, and then returned home.
I had no idea what Mr. Ichigi was doing on the second floor.

Thanks to that low fence, I once saw a moment when Mr. Ichigi seemed genuinely angry.

One morning, as I stood on the veranda gazing at the winter sunlight, violent noises erupted several times in succession from Mr. Ichigi’s house.
Unlike the sound of hard objects colliding, there was a strangely physical resonance to it.
By that time, the two children would have already left for school, leaving Mr. Ichigi alone in the house. Could he have had some sort of seizure, or perhaps accidentally collapsed?
I grew worried and crossed over the fence to go see.
When I called out from the garden, Mr. Ichigi was standing rigidly on the veranda inside the glass door.
His face was bright red, and he was biting his lips.
He glared at me as if reproachfully, opened the glass door, and pointed at his feet.
There lay a cat.
Limply stretched out, it seemed to have already stopped breathing.

“I’ve executed this one.”

And Mr. Ichigi glared at the cat’s corpse.

I shuddered involuntarily.

Mr. Ichigi kept two cats.
They had not yet fully become adult cats but had grown quite large.
Both were calico cats—though not the splendid kind where red and black fur form perfect round patches against a white base, but rather ordinary ones with mostly white coats where red and black hairs grew in randomly scattered patches.
I had heard that his daughter had wanted them, so he had gotten them.
The cat now stretched out at Mr. Ichigi’s feet was one that I too recognized.

According to Mr. Ichigi’s explanation, the cat had at some point taken on the traits of a stray.
Just when one thought it had been gone for two or even three days, it would come slinking back into the house, scatter its food around, and head out again.
That alone would have been tolerable, but it would spray urine everywhere before dashing off to escape.
When it caught sight of Mr. Ichigi, it immediately fled.
It would not approach the kotatsu either, and it was unclear where it was wandering under the cold sky.
The worst thing was that it would enter the house and stealthily observe people’s presence.
Behind sliding doors, behind pillars, at the turns of corridors—it would crouch motionless in such places, poking out only its face to peer stealthily at our movements.
It was as if it had the mentality of a spy.

One of the cats had a gentle disposition, but why had the other one turned out that way?
Mr. Ichigi was truly angry.
He thought to punish it, but it wouldn’t let itself be caught.
When he finally caught it in the corner of the veranda, it scratched his hand, bit him, and thrashed about.
Mr. Ichigi slammed it down onto the wooden floor.
The force was too strong, and the cat went limp.
At that point, having reached a point of no return, Mr. Ichigi kept slamming the cat down until he had beaten it to death.

Mr. Ichigi’s words carried a cold tone, yet something hot lay coiled beneath.

“To spy on people’s movements like that—that’s an unconscionable disposition,” he said. “Being executed was its inevitable fate.”

I suddenly recalled how Mr. Ichigi had once spoken about the bamboo fence—how looking was forbidden, how directing one’s gaze was improper. Regarding the cat too, I came to grasp some measure of understanding.

Mr. Ichigi buried the cat’s body in a corner of the garden.

Because of that, for a time, I felt unsettled and stopped going into Mr. Ichigi’s garden.

There should be temples that bury cats and dogs, so why had Mr. Ichigi interred the cat’s body in his garden’s corner? Surely he hadn’t scrimped on burial fees.

This stemmed from my wife having caught wind of an odd rumor—that golden ingots lay hidden in Mr. Ichigi’s home.

Though he perpetually wore threadbare clothes, his children dressed in truly wretched garments, and their existence remained starkly austere, this rumor of gold bars had gained startling credence. A trifling gossip among neighborhood matrons it might have been, yet that groundless tale—so discordant with reality—was embraced without skepticism.

II

In the early spring of a certain year, Mr. Ichigi’s daughter Hiroko died of an illness.
Because it was so sudden, even those who heard about it secondhand were taken aback.

She had apparently been bedridden for about three days.
At first it seemed like a common cold, but then a high fever developed, making swallowing difficult before breathing grew labored.
By the time the doctor was called, a thick white pseudomembrane had already spread across her throat’s mucous membrane and her heart had weakened.
Injections and other treatments proved ineffective.
It was malignant diphtheria—a rare occurrence for someone of Hiroko’s age.

Most of the neighborhood residents had changed over from wartime through the postwar period, with no remaining ties from the old neighborhood association system; on Mr. Ichigi’s side as well, he had completely avoided interacting with the neighbors. Yet they could not pretend ignorance of the misfortune that had befallen his household.
As leading representatives, several people took care of matters, and then I was the one who worked the most actively.

Mr. Ichigi appeared calm and self-possessed.
And he pushed through everything in his own way.
He refused to display the mourning screen at the front.
He said there was no need to publicly announce Hiroko’s death.
He did not summon any Buddhist monks or Shinto priests.
He did at least place incense sticks before the altar.
On the mortuary tablet the funeral director had brought, he took up the brush himself and wrote “Spirit of Hiroko Ichigi.”
Then he went out to a flower shop and bought a pair of beautifully colored fresh flowers.
However, he refused all offerings from others and pushed them back.
As for the monetary condolence offerings, items like incense sticks and sweets could not simply be taken back by those who brought them, so I went to great lengths to persuade him and managed to have just those accepted.
He insisted that he alone was sufficient to go to the crematorium, and after much effort, he finally permitted only me to accompany him.
In other words, everything was carried out as simply and clearly as possible.

When that was finished, days of profound silence seemed to settle over Mr. Ichigi. And when about ten days had passed—as I crossed over that bamboo fence to visit—he pointed to the alcove in his sitting room. On the small desk there, beside the mortuary tablet and incense holder, lay two condolence envelopes. They were from the deceased’s girls’ school homeroom teacher and her classmates.

“One cannot stand against the multitude alone.”

With that, Mr. Ichigi rolled his eyes in a full circle. Imagining him interacting with teachers and students struck me as oddly comical. He had initially vowed not to send any death notices at all, but later relented—informing the school and even sending announcements to a few relatives and close friends—as if offering an apology through this explanation.

“In other words, by sending out death notices, I came to understand that I could make the deceased entirely my own.”

I couldn’t fully grasp that logic, but I clearly sensed Mr. Ichigi was profoundly consumed by thoughts of the departed.

Mr. Ichigi did not display any photographs of the deceased, but such features remained etched in my mind.
She was on the taller side, slender, and after returning from school would usually change into a kimono.
She wore a meisen kimono with patches here and there—likely an heirloom from her late mother—featuring a dark, subdued pattern, tied with a loquat-colored heko obi.
Her hair was childishly braided and hung down her back.
She had a slightly high forehead and an oval face that remained perpetually expressionless, somehow resembling a Noh mask.
She seemed neither to cry nor laugh.
Moreover, that expressionless Noh mask-like face appeared strangely vivid, at times imparting a startling impression.

How had Mr. Ichigi perceived such features?
What did he mean by saying that sending out death notices allowed him to make the deceased entirely his own?

Now, because of those death notices, I found myself witnessing a strange scene.

One afternoon, Mr. Ichigi stepped over the bamboo fence and came over—and in a rare occurrence—called out to me.
When I went out to check, Mr. Ichigi stood rigidly near the veranda.

“Please come here for a moment.”
“And please join me for a drink.”
“An unwelcome fellow came by, you see, and the sake turned unpalatable.”

It was not uncommon for Mr. Ichigi to drink alone during the day, but this was the first time I had been invited to join him.
However, when I went over, there was a single visitor.
He was a middle-aged, overweight man in a Western suit, his hair cropped short, looking like an executive at some small company.
This must be the unwelcome fellow, I instantly thought.
And there hung an air of interrupted argument.

The guest was a relative of Mr. Ichigi’s late wife, a man named Doi.
Mr. Ichigi said bluntly while offering me a cup.

“Mr. Doi seems to suspect that I handled Hiroko’s funeral carelessly, without proper decorum.”
“Please at least prove from your side that this is not the case.”

Mr. Ichigi was already in a combative stance.
I realized I hadn’t been invited as a drinking companion but had actually been summoned as a witness.

Mr. Doi, his eyes gleaming from behind his tortoiseshell-framed glasses, explained in a calm tone.

“No, this isn’t about how the funeral was conducted.”
“Well, since she’s your daughter, it’s your freedom to hold whatever kind of funeral you choose.”
“However, as I’ve repeatedly stated since earlier, would it not be considered social courtesy to have at least notified us—and others as well—at the time of her passing?”
“By letting them bid farewell to the deceased and attend the funeral service, that becomes both a memorial for her and a way to fulfill social obligations to the neighbors.”
“When I hear your account, it seems you left everything entirely to the neighbors, making us feel completely ignored.”
“If that is your view, then so be it—we too shall adopt such a view.”
“However, Hiroko deserved better.”
“You didn’t inform anyone until after the fact.”
“Not a single relative attended the funeral.”
“I was away on a trip and found a notification letter upon returning.”
“Moreover, it was nothing more than a belated report arriving over ten days later.”
“Since my wife had no prior acquaintance with you, she was at a loss.”
“I put aside other matters to rush here, only to find no cremated remains left to address?”
“Your irreligiosity may align with your principles—I won’t contest that.”
“But shouldn’t granting us at least an opportunity to bid farewell to Hiroko’s remains have been basic decency?”

Mr. Doi finished speaking and took a swig from his cup.
It seemed he had gathered all the fragmentary protests he had been making since earlier into a single summary, likely to ensure I heard them as well.

Mr. Ichigi did not change his expression in the slightest.
Puffing on a cigarette and occasionally picking up his sake cup, he said quietly,
“Whether it be Hiroko’s corpse or her cremated remains after cremation, they are separate entities from Hiroko herself.”

Mr. Doi seemed dumbfounded.
Then suddenly, his cheeks flushed.

“So you truly mean that Ms. Hiroko and her corpse and cremated remains are separate entities?”
“So you’re saying that once a person dies, their corpse becomes a separate entity from who they were?”
“I see.”
“If that is your view—though it feels ill-omened to say—then should you by chance pass away, treating you and your corpse as separate entities would pose no issue whatsoever, I take it?”

“That is fine.”
“Because it has no relation to me.”

It felt utterly impenetrable.
After that, the conversation died.

Some time ago, I recalled that Mr. Ichigi had buried the cat’s corpse in a corner of the garden.
I could not believe that Mr. Ichigi was joking.

Mr. Ichigi heated sake in the copper kettle of the long hibachi and lined up the flasks one after another before the three of them.
He no longer poured for us, so we served ourselves and drank.
As side dishes, there were sparrow skewers, kamaboko, and nori.

After a long silence, Mr. Doi seemed to suddenly notice something, surveyed the dining table, and changed the subject.
It concerned future matters.

Even though Hiroko had still been a girls’ school student, being a girl, she must have been quite helpful with household chores.
Now that she was gone, future matters would have to be considered.
Even if remarriage was no longer feasible for Mr. Ichigi, how about hiring a maid?
Mr. Doi said such things.
He emphasized that despite our support being in place, there was also the matter of appearances with the neighbors...

Mr. Ichigi’s response came down solely to wanting to be left completely alone.

Mr. Doi began growing indignant again.

“You always say, ‘Leave me alone,’ but that won’t hold water in society.”
“Even with Ms. Hiroko’s funeral, you ended up relying heavily on the neighbors’ help, didn’t you?”
“It’s an old matter now, but after your wife passed away, I urged you many times to remarry—yet even then, you kept insisting on being left alone...”
“It’s the same story this time too.”
“How do you plan to manage living from here on out—just an old man and a young child, all alone?”

“That I can manage single-handedly.”

“That may suffice under normal circumstances, but what would you do if you were to fall ill and take to bed? Even this time, in transporting Ms. Hiroko’s cremated remains to the Shinshu countryside, someone would have needed to stay behind.”

“No—I sent that by parcel post.”

“Huh? The cremated remains by parcel post…?”

Upon hearing this, I too was startled.
I had first learned at that gathering that Ms. Hiroko’s cremated remains had been sent to the Shinshu countryside, but that they had been dispatched via parcel post was something I could never have imagined.
Could such a thing even have been permitted?
Mr. Doi’s face also paled.

“You’re completely deranged.”
“This is no different from dumping her remains in some ditch.”
“Did they even reach their destination intact?”

“It certainly did arrive.”
“A respectful reply arrived.”
“If you have doubts, I will show you the evidence.”

Mr. Ichigi stood up, took out a letter from the drawer of the utility chest, and showed it to Mr. Doi.
Mr. Doi read it carefully twice over.
And he passed it to me.

The letter had come from the head priest of the Ichigi family’s ancestral temple in the countryside of Shinshu.
It solemnly stated in brush calligraphy that they had duly received twenty thousand yen as a perpetual memorial service fee for Mr. Ichigi’s late wife and Hiroko, and that following this, Hiroko’s cremated remains had also arrived and been reverently enshrined.

Mr. Doi seemed to have become unable to make sense of it.
I was much the same.
The theory that a person and their corpse were separate entities, the method of sending cremated remains via parcel post, the donation of a large sum as a perpetual memorial service fee—what connection existed between these matters? We could not grasp Mr. Ichigi’s true intent.

Mr. Doi, who had been deep in thought, raised his face as if struck in the chest by something.

“You cancel out everything by donating money.”
“In other words, you’re trying to redeem everything with money—that’s your intention, isn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s a very you-like way of thinking.”

Mr. Doi made an intensely sour face.
Then he drank several cups of sake, glared at Mr. Ichigi with a look declaring further discussion pointless, gave me a nod of acknowledgment, and took his leave under pretext of urgent business elsewhere.

Mr. Ichigi escorted him to the entrance, then returned and said as he took his seat:

“The slave to money has finally shown its tail.”
“That’s precisely why I can’t stand people like that.”

I tentatively ventured:
“Might it not be that he deemed perpetual memorial service fees somewhat excessive?”

“No—it wasn’t excessive.
“It’s the compensation for separating myself from the two cremated remains.”

I felt as though something cold had been poured over me. And yet, while continuing to be Mr. Ichigi’s drinking companion, I found myself doubting whether this long-haired old man sitting before me was slightly unhinged or remarkably wise. In any case, he was undeniably a man of singular mind.

As he grew drunker, Mr. Ichigi brought out his shakuhachi flute and played Oiwake-bushi folk melodies. No—or rather, he seemed less intent on making me listen than on becoming absorbed in the sound himself.

III

Mr. Ichigi's daily life gradually returned to solitary tranquility.
He went out for shopping and other errands with his usual air of detachment; otherwise, he mostly remained secluded at home in quiet stillness.

Yet it remained true that Ms. Hiroko's death had deepened a lonely shadow.
Above all, they were now short one pair of hands.
Mr. Ichigi had been handling all household tasks himself—from cooking rice to preparing stews, along with cleaning and laundry—though Hiroko's presence would have provided substantial help, now lost.
Moreover, the psychological blow must have been profound.
Still, Mr. Ichigi seemed to have borne it all with equanimity, appearing perfectly composed.

When summer arrived and schools went on vacation, Shingo could be seen sweeping the garden and pulling weeds. Like his sister, he was a thin, quiet child with remarkably little expression on his face. He rarely went out to play with other children and would instead stay quietly indoors occupied with something.

In the evenings, occasionally, Mr. Ichigi’s high-pitched voice, seemingly reading aloud, could be heard from the second floor.

One time, having noticed something that caught my attention, I climbed over that bamboo fence, entered Mr. Ichigi’s garden, and stood beneath the second floor.
Mr. Ichigi was reading in a high-pitched voice.

As I listened, I soon realized.
It was a children’s story I had written.

The location could be anywhere, but let’s say it’s intended to be Western.
In a certain place there once lived a shepherd boy who had obtained a mysterious leather pouch that could turn even pebbles into gold coins, and taking it with him, he set out to visit the capital.
After several days of travel, he arrived at the capital.
Large, splendid houses lined the streets, and people streamed by.
When evening came, lights were lit all over, and many elegantly dressed people appeared.
The boy, being hungry, entered a splendid hotel.
Then, there was a man in white clothes who, upon seeing the boy’s shabby attire, said.
“This is no place for the likes of you to come.
“If you want to eat, try asking elsewhere.”
The boy went outside and entered another splendid hotel, only to be told the same thing again.
The boy went outside and walked off blankly.
He came out to the edge of a large river, and a little further ahead in the dimly lit square, there was a small fountain.
An old man in dirty-looking clothes was drinking water from the fountain.
The boy asked.
“Is this water okay for anyone to drink?”
"The old man answered."

“You can drink it.”
“But it’s not good water.”
The boy eagerly drank that water.
Then, when he told about being driven out of the splendid hotel, the old man laughed and said,
“That’s just how it is.”
So the boy took out a gold coin from his leather pouch, showed it, and asked if there was somewhere that might give him something to eat.
The old man was startled and said that with such a gold coin, you could eat anywhere.
So the boy invited that old man and also many hungry people, went to a small restaurant, and everyone had a pleasant meal together…….

Since the boy’s name was Ekimos, I immediately recognized it as my own work. It was a passage from a lengthy children’s story, roughly like the one I’ve just recounted. Mr. Ichigi must have been reading it aloud to Shingo. The image flashed through my mind of two figures—resembling less parent and child than grandfather and grandson—huddled together beneath the electric light. Then abruptly, overcome by guilt at having eavesdropped, I muffled my footsteps and stole back home.

But there was no way Mr. Ichigi couldn’t have known that children’s story was my work.
He had known and kept silent.
After that, I too remained silent about my children’s story, but Mr. Ichigi likewise never broached the subject.

When it came to external matters like this children’s story affair, Mr. Ichigi likely wasn’t deliberately concealing anything—but he remained terribly taciturn, too indolent to speak.
Instead, he increasingly confided his inner thoughts to me.

One evening, Mr. Ichigi settled himself in a grassy field by the roadside, stretched both legs out in front of him, and gazed at the setting sun.
He slung a bamboo basket containing a sketchbook over his shoulder, placed a thick cane at his side, and there was a single gourd lying near the cane.
That unfamiliar gourd, paired with what appeared to be thinning long hair, left me with an oddly desolate impression.

I approached and called out without hesitation.

“Your belongings have increased by one gourd.”

Mr. Ichigi looked up at me and floated a faint smile.

“It’s charming when there’s liquor in it, but becomes rather dull when empty, I must say.”

I found myself squatting there.
In the burnt-field grassland, fragments of concrete and bricks lay scattered about.

In the western sky, pitch-black clouds were layered low, their upper edges glaring brightly, while slightly above them in the deep blue sky, the sun emerged like a silver basin, spinning round and round.
In a situation where it was unclear whether the sun would sink into the clouds or the clouds would engulf the sun, watching made my eyes grow dim.

“Aren’t you going to sketch?”

“No, not at all.”

After that, the words ceased.

The clouds seemed to gradually lower, and the space between them and the sun appeared to grow wider.

After some time had passed, Mr. Ichigi suddenly began to speak.

“I remembered something strange.”

It concerned whirlpools on the river’s surface.
In his childhood countryside, there were times he would fixate on watching whirlpools.
Near the weir—perhaps where water leaked through some submerged hole—a massive vortex would form on the fully brimmed water surface.
The periphery moved languidly at first, then gradually quickened, spinning more violently as it neared the center until it hollowed into a deep chasm that whirled with a high-pitched whirring.
When someone tossed in a grass blade, it would circle slowly at first along wide arcs, then trace faster, tighter curves before plunging into the central void to be instantly swallowed.
Gazing at that vortex made his whole body grow taut.

I too had memories of such things from my childhood.

“But now that I clearly recall it, it takes on a different meaning.”
“In other words, it comes to feel different.”
“A whirlpool is a whirlpool, but the psychological whirlpools of people, and then societal whirlpools—those kinds of things become clearly visible.”

Mr. Ichigi’s expressions were simple yet peculiar, and even I found them difficult to fully comprehend, but in essence, they seemed to amount to the following:
That is to say, within human psychology too there exists a kind of whirlpool—once you fall into its center, there’s no escaping it.
In social relationships as well, there exists a kind of whirlpool—once you fall into its center, there’s no escaping it.
People are always standing on the precipice of a dangerous whirlpool…….

“That is why I remain vigilant.”

Mr. Ichigi’s vigilance, it seemed, was about protecting his solitary spirit and way of life; and to safeguard that solitude, he appeared to be attempting to sever all interactions and relationships—or so I inferred.

However, from the impression I received at that time, Mr. Ichigi seemed less intent on conveying his thoughts to me than inclined—even if unconsciously—to impart some kind of lesson.
Had it been my misconception?

While gazing at the setting sun, they talked about whirlpools, and then the two of them stood up.
They walked in silence along the way and parted as they were.

However, not long after that, trouble arose.

A plan was proposed for just one section of the neighborhood to jointly renovate their toilets into flush-type systems.
This had been encouraged by the authorities as well, with word that a certain contractor would handle the matter on a volunteer basis.
Regarding this “volunteer basis” arrangement, there were indeed whispers of some corruption lurking behind the scenes, but overall, the general opinion was nearing consensus.
Since the sewer system had been completed along the main thoroughfare out front, all that remained was to lay connecting pipes underground.
Though called a block, it consisted of only about twenty households—many being small houses—so the cost per household was estimated between 6,000 and 15,000 yen.
However, with homeowners and renters intermingled, cohabitants present, and varying landlords for rented properties, it was decided that costs would be borne by each household’s head.
Regarding this matter, Mr. Hirano—who owned a comparatively large house within the block and faced a special cost assessment—made a kind offer: he would advance payments for those struggling with lump sums, allowing them to repay in monthly installments.

So matters were nearly settled, but there remained one hitch.
Mr. Ichigi had refused his consent.
They had postponed addressing him since he objected from the start, yet he still would not agree.
With nothing but a curt “No” for reply, there was no opening for negotiation.
To be sure, they could have proceeded by omitting just that one house, but having painstakingly achieved near-unanimity, they wished to finalize everything collectively if possible. Moreover, there was no telling whether others might follow this precedent and voice objections.

Because of that matter, Mr. Taketa—a man who could be considered the neighborhood caretaker—came to ask me for help.

“Well, you’re the only one in the neighborhood close to Mr. Ichigi—could you please try to make an effort on this?”

Regarding the toilet renovation matter, I was one of those who had consented, and I had vaguely heard that Mr. Ichigi was opposed. However, persuading Mr. Ichigi seemed impossible. I wanted to refuse. As if to override this, Mr. Taketa prattled on about trivial matters and hastily left without waiting for my reply.

I reluctantly decided to at least try talking to Mr. Ichigi once.

Stepping over that bamboo fence, I went to Mr. Ichigi’s place and called out; a response came from the second floor. As I thought this wouldn’t do—he was probably going to say he didn’t want to see anyone now—Mr. Ichigi leaned out from the second floor and said, “It’s fine—come on up.”

Around the time of Ms. Hiroko’s funeral, I had been up to the second floor before and knew the layout.

Climbing up from the veranda, I glanced over and saw a futon laid out in the tatami room.
As I ascended the faintly creaking stairs, there was another futon spread in the second-floor room.
Mr. Ichigi sat on that veranda, legs stretched out as he massaged his ankle.
Bandages lay scattered beside him.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Oh, I just sprained my ankle a bit.”

Mr. Ichigi diligently massaged his ankle, then applied ichthammol ointment, placed oilpaper over it, and bandaged it.

During that time, I smoked a cigarette while gazing absently around the room.
It hadn’t changed at all since the time of the funeral.
On the wall were several landscape sketches in charcoal and pencil fastened with nails.
On the medium-sized bookshelf, books were lined up—volumes on physics, geometry, astronomy, and others alongside philosophy books and fairy tales—arranged in an odd combination.
On the large desk were stacks of large-format ruled and blank papers, with various lines drawn vertically and horizontally—probably materials for Mr. Ichigi’s specialized research—but what kind of research it was, I couldn’t tell.
I had not exactly been infected by what might be called Mr. Ichigi’s doctrine of non-interference, but at the very least, I found it difficult to ask him about his research—and Mr. Ichigi, for his part, remained silent.

Mr. Ichigi finished attending to his ankle, carefully tidied up the area, offered me whiskey, and drank some himself.

“Since my leg is inconvenient, I’m afraid there’s nothing to serve with drinks.”

“No, thank you.”
“But it must be inconvenient for you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious.”
“I sleep and wake up, loafing about.”
“The funny thing is, during the day I feel more comfortable sleeping upstairs, and at night I find it more comfortable sleeping downstairs—it’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

While having such conversations, I again found myself wanting to quickly settle the flush toilet matter like I had with the previous bamboo fence issue.
Somehow, whenever I had some business to handle, I couldn't feel settled when dealing with Mr. Ichigi until I'd resolved it.
It might have been because the other party was too composed.

Frankly, I talked about what Mr. Taketa had asked me to do and brought up the matter of the flush toilet.
Mr. Ichigi slightly furrowed his brows, then said nonchalantly:

“That won’t do, I tell you.”
“Japanese electric lights are designed to cause blackouts.”
“Japanese water supply systems are designed to cause outages.”
“Japanese roads are designed to make you trip and fall.”
“That’s why my ankle ended up like this.”
“The mess of flush toilets—unlike an ankle, you can’t just fix it yourself.”
“That’s why I refused.”

It was Mr. Ichigi’s will that felt decisive and unassailable.
Considering my duty fulfilled in that regard, I resolved never to bring up the matter again.

After a brief pause, Mr. Ichigi suddenly said.

“Really, this meddlesome disposition toward other people’s households is what’s wrong.”
“When Mr. Taketa comes next time, I’ll tell him exactly that.”

When it came to such matters, I still found myself unable to voice my own opinion.
Truth be told, when I first heard about Mr. Ichigi’s sprained ankle, I had fleetingly considered asking my wife to prepare some stewed dish to bring over—but immediately feared he would rebuke even that as unnecessary meddling.

While admiring Mr. Ichigi’s philosophy of solitude, I gazed painfully at the foot stretched out before me.
Even through the bandages, I could tell it had swollen up quite significantly; not only that, but I also thought there seemed to be a slight edema around the shin.

Mr. Ichigi, raising his whiskey glass, seemed to notice my gaze and tapped his shin.

“There’s some edema too, don’t you think?”
“It might be kidney trouble.”

“Did you have a doctor examine it?”

“No, doctors are utterly useless.”
“If it’s going to heal, it will heal naturally. If not, I’ll just die naturally—that’s all there is to it.”

While it was absurd logic, for Mr. Ichigi, it had seemingly solidified into a genuine belief.
That’s why, even if he thought his kidneys might be failing, he could drink whiskey without concern.
Thinking it wouldn’t do to keep him company drinking for too long, I took my leave at an appropriate time.
Mr. Ichigi did not try to detain me but, limping, came down the stairs and saw me off to the lower engawa.

I felt a dark mood come over me.

However, that mood soon lifted.

When about a month had passed, Mr. Ichigi’s ankle sprain was completely healed, there appeared to be no kidney trouble, and he had regained his former vigor.

Even so, how long would that health last?
He was indeed a man of unique spirit, but I couldn’t help worrying about Mr. Ichigi—after all, he was not a man of modernity.

― Mr. Ichigi is still alive at present.